


over and over and then over again

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [2]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Dot, Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Incineration, and I have a lot of feelings about it, dot attempts to literally achieve No Thoughts Only Blaseball, for context: gloom's incineration was a result of being beaned by jaylen, in extra innings of a game that dot pitched, it's about time I officially said that, it's not a good coping mechanism, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27440107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: The rest of the team is faltering. They remember another game that seemed endless, remember the darkness and the horrible light that punctuated it. Dot remembers too, of course, but they don't falter, even though the game is tied and the extra innings are looming. The ball must be thrown, and so it is. Nothing can change that. Dot can only stop if the flames come for them someday too, and so they pitch, and do not allow themself to think of fire.(Jaylen Hotdogfingers hits Workman Gloom with a pitch, Workman Gloom hits their final home run, and PolkaDot Patterson hits rock bottom.)
Relationships: Jaylen Hotdogfingers & PolkaDot Patterson, Ortiz Morse & PolkaDot Patterson, Workman Gloom & PolkaDot Patterson
Series: the price of perfection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	over and over and then over again

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a fic about Jaylen, and I've always wanted to write a fic about Gloom's final home run, but I was pretty intimidated at the thought of trying to tackle either of those. Then I was reminded that Gloom was beaned by Jaylen in extra innings of a 19-inning game that Dot pitched, which gave me the perfect opportunity to write about both those topics at once and have it be easier because I could also make it about Dot! (Making everything about Dot is my favourite blaseball-related pastime, in case you haven't noticed.) So here we are. Despite that, I'm still a bit intimidated... but I hope you like what I did with this!
> 
> This ties in to the first fic in the series, and slightly to my Ruby Tuesday fic as well. However, no previous context is needed, and this can be read as a standalone thing!
> 
> Title is taken from the amazing song [hurt people](https://thegarages.bandcamp.com/track/hurt-people) by the Garages, with apologies for both using it in a fic that's only partly about Jaylen and taking bits of it somewhat out of context.
> 
> Shoutout also to reblase for being a great resource that allows me to write these games with excessive accuracy.
> 
> I apologize in advance for cranking up the angst on this one, but I promise that things start to look up by the end.

Under the lights of her home stadium, the Garages’ star pitcher takes the mound to dead silence. She plants her feet and stands tall, twirls the ball in hands that despite everything are steady, unshaking, the picture of poised confidence -- but her face tells a different story, for the few who will look past the echo of fire in her eyes.

PolkaDot Patterson understands Jaylen Hotdogfingers.

Dot understands a lot, generally, but most of it has to do with the inner workings of blaseball and the universe itself, not with people and how to talk to them and why they do the things they do. Understanding  _ people _ is one thing that’s never come easy to Dot -- but then again, Dot isn't all that much of a person anymore, and neither is Jaylen. That’s something they can understand all too well.

It's been a long time since Jaylen was nothing more than the beloved star pitcher for the Garages and Dot was nothing more than an unremarkable pitcher for the Mints. A long time since the book was still closed. A long time since the world was normal. Dot can only half-remember those times, half-remember looking up to Jaylen, back when she won so many games and could still smile about it.

Dot’s most vivid memories of the Garages come from after, handfuls of moments from the games they pitched against Mike Townsend still lingering in their mind. Mike Townsend, who was easy to win against, who took the mound to booing from his own team’s fans, whose so-called friends wrote a song about how much of a disappointment he was. Mike Townsend, who went out there and tried his best every single time, fighting hard for a team that took far too long to appreciate him. Mike Townsend, who gave up everything to bring back someone who was so loved, because the world had spent years telling him that he wasn't.

Thanks to him, Dot finally gets to pitch against Jaylen, though there’s not much love for her anymore. The crowd doesn't boo her like they did Mike; they merely sit and watch in silence, afraid to take their eyes away. Afraid to miss the next price that will be paid.

Dot would have enjoyed this opportunity, were the circumstances different. This should be the kind of game they live for, a duel between pitchers, a game that goes on and on and on, the rhythm expanding into a symphony until the world is nothing but pitching and pitching and pitching, and yet so much more than that at the same time. It's a rare opponent who can dance with Dot and match them step for step.

There was that day, that one glorious day in Breckenridge when nothing mattered but making the finals and they just  _ pitched _ and everything seemed as good and right as it could in this new world, and August Sky’s smile grew brighter even as the innings dragged on, because she was keeping up with  _ PolkaDot Patterson _ , and Dot felt alive and alight with the energy of a real challenge. 

But they look back on that win, sometimes, and think that a victory wrought with god-given hands isn't much of a victory for them. 

This game with Jaylen, Dot knows, will not be much of a victory for either of them. Everyone has seen what Jaylen is capable of, still sees the dark sky and the searing flames when they close their eyes. It will only be a victory if no one is hit. 

She doesn't want to do it. There are whispers, rumours that she does, that she delights in watching them burn. But the gods whisper louder, and Dot understands them.

She's still Jaylen Hotdogfingers. She still pitches and feels and thinks. The gods just do some of those things for her, now, whenever they want. People talk of looking into her eyes and seeing fire and darkness, but Dot can see nothing more than their own reflection. Another puppet of the gods.

Dot, though, is simply there to pitch. Jaylen has debts to pay, and that is where the gods guide her hands, rather than helping her win. She earned her stars through hard work, and that hasn't changed.

What's changed is that her efforts are now concentrated on trying not to hit the batters.

Jaylen isn't used to having the gods in her head, hasn't come to terms with it. Dot has seen all the replays, sees her always trying to fight it, trying to further defy the gods, trying to yank her arm out of their grip and throw anywhere but at the batter. 

It hasn't worked, and it never will. Nothing but a waste of her energy. Dot would tell her as much, but they know she won't let herself believe it, not yet. Someday she'll learn, and someday she'll stop trying. 

But today, she’s still going to fight. Jaylen rests two fingers on her neck, confirming that she's really there, that this is really happening, stares past the batter and right down the middle of the strike zone, winds up to throw. 

The game begins. 

* * *

_ One. Two. Three. _

Dot slips into the rhythm, watches the innings pass by. While they're pitching, they don't have to think about Jaylen, about how dangerous this game is, about anything. It's just them and the ball and the batter, one-two-three -- and yes, it's always not consistent; a few home runs are hit, but those are just variations, modulations, different ways to make this interesting. It's nothing to worry about; a few good hits are a small price to pay for throwing so many strikes.

The gods agree.  _ You are perfect. You are chosen. You are unstoppable. _

_ One. Two. Three. _

The rest of the team is faltering. They remember another game that seemed endless, remember the darkness and the horrible light that punctuated it. Dot remembers too, of course, but they don't falter, even though the game is tied and the extra innings are looming. The ball must be thrown, and so it is. Nothing can change that. Dot can only stop if the flames come for them someday too, and so they pitch, and do not allow themself to think of fire. 

The innings tick on. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. The Talkers are starting to mutter to each other.

“This has to end.”

“Not again. Please, not again.”

“Why hasn't she hit us yet? Why is she drawing it out? How can she be so ruthless?”

“Can’t you end this?”

Dot is watching Jaylen throw yet another pitch, concentrating on the way she’s concentrating, and it takes them a while to realize that that last sentence is directed at them. They're not even sure who said it. 

“I am doing my best,” they respond absently.

“Your  _ best _ ?” This time it's one of their newer teammates, frowning. Cerveza. “You've already given up several home runs. You're not as perfect as everyone says. This could have been over long ago if you weren’t so stubborn.” 

“I have lost too many teammates,” Fish says solemnly. “This game must end.”

“I am --”

“Now is not the time to be doing your best!” Ziwa is angry. At them? “It doesn't matter if we win! Just let them score, let this end! Jaylen's already drawing it out as long as possible, we don't need you doing it too.” There's a murmuring of agreement. 

Dot blinks. “She's not. She's just pitching. I'm just pitching.”

“She’s  _ just _ pitching? Did you miss the part where the players she hits are  _ dying _ ? Your own teammates? Or are you too busy “just pitching” to notice?” 

“She doesn't want this.  _ Nobody _ wants this, I --”

“How can you defend that heartless bitch?” Ziwa demands.

Can’t the others understand Jaylen? They are all grieving, yes, but blaming her for their grief will not help.

Dot doesn’t know how to say this without inviting further anger, though, so they simply say “Believe me, I want this to end as much as you do.”

_ No, you don't, _ whisper the gods. _ This is what you were made for. Why would you want to stop? _

“Then  _ end _ it!”

“It's not that simple, Ziwa. The gods have a plan, whether we like it or not. If someone is going to be hit, they're going to be hit no matter what I choose to do.”

“Don't you _ care _ ?”

_ No _ , say the gods. _ Their lives are short and meaningless and not worth protecting. _

Dot cares. Dot cares so much, though it would be easier not to, easier to step back even further, turn away and keep trying to pretend they don’t. They were never supposed to be with the Talkers this long, were never supposed to get attached, were never supposed to have to watch their teammates burn, but here they still are, and they care. 

“Of course I do.”

“Then at least  _ try _ to defy them! Are you theirs, or are you ours?” 

They are both. They wish they weren't.

“Ziwa,” Morse says, finally getting a word in edgewise. “Remember last time. Remember what they said. Blaming each other isn’t going to help anyone.” 

Ziwa looks as if they want to say something more, but after a long moment, they simply turn away, silent. 

The game goes on. 

* * *

_ Can’t you end this? _

The question echoes in Dot’s head as they stare down yet another batter. They know the answer all too well, but they think of others anyway. Throw a nice easy pitch. Walk in a run, like Morse would. Turn around and leave, tell the gods they're not going to put up with this anymore.

The gods laugh at the thought.

Do it. Just do it. If it doesn't matter, at least you can say you tried.

They know it won't work. They know it will do nothing at best, accelerate the gods’ plan at worst. They know the team won't believe them even if they do try to fight, so why fight? 

There stopped being a choice long ago. 

_ One. Two. Three. _

The strikes slam into the catcher's glove. 

The game goes on.

* * *

After every batter, Jaylen’s fingers come back to rest on her neck, searching. Every time the same answer -- she's still here, her own rhythm refusing to falter. Sixteen innings, and still she cannot stop. 

She cannot stop what is coming, either.

Jaylen’s eyes spark with fear-anger-hatred and her arm is pulled back and the ball flies and Workman Gloom is standing there and --

A soft, muffled thump as it collides with their shoulder. The world stands still for half a moment, and then that aura flares up around them, wavering and  _ wrong _ .

Screams of fear. Anger. Hatred. The Talkers know all too well how this story ends.

Gloom puts down the bat. Walks to first. Doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. 

The game goes on.

* * *

PolkaDot Patterson understands Workman Gloom.

The best at what they do, always stepping up with steady hands and sharp eyes, leading the Talkers to victory. They take their job seriously, never complain, never hesitate. Their skills are admired by all. They've been drifting in a sort of solitude ever since being torn away from their former team, always on the outside, though they're polite and usually get along with everyone.

The two of them could bond over their shared traits, Dot thinks, if only some of those traits weren’t the sort that prevent them from bonding in the first place. 

Workman, though, is different in the ways that matter. Workman has friends in Canada and friends in Charleston and a dog to go home to. Workman has a life outside of blaseball.

They are not likely to have it much longer.

* * *

_ One. Two. Three. _

Dot is tired.

Not from pitching, never from pitching; their arm is as strong as ever. And yet a bone-deep weariness has set in as they stand on the mound yet again, spin the ball and watch it zip past the batter.  _ Just pitching _ . It's what they do. This game means nothing, this game cannot be won in a way that matters, and still they pitch and pitch and pitch. They don't fight it; they know their place. They don't think about Workman. They don't think about anything. They just pitch. 

_ One. Two. Three. _

The innings go by. It's the 19th when the Garages finally shame the Talkers, two doubles in a row to drive in a run. Dot can feel a fraction of the tension in the air dissipate as the rest of the team finds themselves safe from Jaylen, at least for a while longer.

And still Dot pitches, because that's how blaseball works. They’ve already lost, and still they pitch. The rhythm has started to fade, drowned out by the echo of  _ can't you just end this? _ as they have to watch the Garages continue to get hits, hits on their pitches, now of all times.

_ One. Two. Three. _

The runs pile up until the Talkers finally get those final outs, the game ending 10-6. Even a win wouldn't have felt good, but this is not a loss the team will forget. Nineteen innings and nothing to show for it but shame and their best hitter marked for death.

More of those words are echoing, now.  _ You're not as perfect as everyone says. _

They never claimed to be perfect, had never wanted to be, even before. They only wanted to be better. They only wanted to play blaseball.

It’s far too late to take back those wishes now.

Dot and Jaylen shake hands on the mound, hands that are no longer their own, and say nothing, and understand it. No one else goes near her. 

The locker room is quiet, the sort of quiet that barely masks the impending loudness. Nobody’s looking at Gloom. Everybody’s looking at Dot. Dot’s not looking at anybody.

“Nineteen innings? Seriously? Can’t you ever stop? How can you care about winning when you're risking everyone's lives?”

“ _ No, I can't stop _ !” Dot snaps, because everything has gone wrong and it’s not their fault but it somehow feels like it is and why doesn’t the team  _ understand _ ? Everyone flinches back at the sound of their voice, just a little, but it says a lot. “I didn’t ask for this! You think  _ winning _ is what I care about? You think I want this? Don't you listen to me? This just would have happened earlier, had I tried to fight it. This is what was always going to happen.”

“Your motto of  _ we are powerless against the will of the gods _ sure is pretty convenient right now.” Ziwa, still angry.

“Hey, come on, let's not --” Morse begins.

The others talk right over him.

“How do we know you're really on our side and not theirs?”

“Yeah, the gods help _ you _ out, too…”

“Are you working with Jaylen? Helping her pay her debts?”

“Don't you remember what happened last time? Don’t you  _ care _ ?”

The gods are amused.  _ See how they squabble like children? They are beneath you. They are -- _

_ Shut up, _ Dot thinks at everyone. _ Shut up shut up shut up. _ They don't feel above anyone right now. 

This is their team. They thought that by now, everyone had started to feel that Dot belonged there. How can they all turn so fast? Dot knows they're hard to understand, but doesn't anyone understand them at least a little bit?

Not everyone is throwing accusations, they know that, some part of them knows it, but even those who might disagree do not step up to defend them. To defend Jaylen, by extension.

“Don't you have anything to say for yourself?”

Words are tumbling around Dot on all sides, and they can't seem to remember how to use them. The rhythm pounds in their ears. Their many hands clench into fists. Their eyes crackle. Who are these people, to doubt them, to defy the power of the gods?

They see it now on the faces of their teammates. Fear. Real fear. They remember seeing it before under dark skies. And somewhere deep in their mind, they see their own fear, too, as if from far away, as if it belongs to someone else. 

What have they become?

“Stop it.” The voice is a quiet one, but everyone pauses to listen to it.

Gloom stands up from the corner on legs that are shifting in and out of existence, and yet they still stand tall. 

“This is the worst time to be fighting among ourselves. Let’s all just cool off, okay? It’s been a long day.” Gloom looks at Dot with some expression that Dot can’t understand, not through this haze, but it somehow makes a bit of their anger evaporate, and they unclench their fists, belatedly noticing the shaking in their hands, their entire body.

Nobody else knows what to say, now.

Dot turns to leave. Nobody stops them. Well. They can all think what they want.

Right now, Dot doesn't want to think anything, and the gods are happy to oblige.

* * *

_ One. Two. Three. _

The blaseball makes a perfect rhythm even outside of the game, always hitting the wall within the boundaries of the ever-present rectangle they can see in their mind, strikeout after strikeout after strikeout. Dot reaches out fingers to draw the ball back to them after each throw, not needing to move from their spot.

_ One. Two. Three. _

Perfect. Chosen. Unstoppable.

_ One. Two. Three. _

Heartless. Ruthless. Unstoppable.

What does Jaylen do, when everything is pounding loud in her head and the world is too big and too small all at once and everyone stares at her with hate and fear and she knows that her hands and her life aren't hers anymore and probably never will be again?

Dot doubts that the answer is “more pitching”.

_ One. Two. Three. _

Throw it somewhere else. Anywhere else. Stop doing the same thing over and over and over again. 

_ Why? _ the gods demand. _ This is perfection. This is what you are. This is a gift that many would kill to have. _

_ You think too much of killing _ , Dot tells them.

_ One. Two. Three. _

Footsteps approach. Dot would know that walk anywhere.

“You're going to wear a hole right through that wall,” Ortiz Morse says.

“Impossible. The strike zone is large enough that I never need to hit the exact same spot twice. Additionally, I know the precise velocity and angle at which to throw in order to prevent damage to the wall, and when the fourth dimension is factored in --”

“You’re talking like a textbook, Dot. Immersing yourself in pitching isn’t going to help.” 

Ortiz Morse thinks he understands PolkaDot Patterson. 

“Would you prefer I not talk at all?” Dot would very much prefer no talking right now, personally, though Morse is at least more pleasant to listen to than the gods.

_ One.  _

Morse doesn’t blink as the pitch flies past him. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

_ Two.  _

“Do I seem not okay? I am throwing strikes, as I always do. Go worry about Gloom.”

_ Three. _

“...Dot.”

_ One.  _

“Go away, Morse.”

_ Two.  _

“I’m worried about you, too.”

_ Three. _

“Worried I’m going to get the rest of the team killed?”

_ One.  _

“No one thinks that.”

_ Two.  _

“Really! They did a good job of convincing me otherwise.”

_ Three. _

“Do  _ you _ think that?”

Dot isn't thinking at all. Just pitching.

“...Go away, Morse.”

_ One.  _

“Somebody once told me that we shouldn't blame ourselves for things beyond our control.”

_ Two.  _

“Somebody remembers a team who didn't blame others for things beyond their control.”

_ Three. _

“They're hurting, Dot. They don't mean it. Give them time.”

Is this not hurting, what Dot feels?

_ One.  _

“I do not control time. Much as I do not control Jaylen Hotdogfingers. Or the gods.”  _ Or myself _ .

_ Two.  _

“You know what I mean.”

_ Three. _

“No need to have this conversation, then.”

Morse snatches the ball out of the air before it can hit the wall again. The rhythm pounds on in Dot’s head,  _ onetwothreeonetwothreeonetwothree _ . Unstoppable. Unstoppable. Unstoppable.

“Take a break, Dot. This isn’t going to help. You can't let pitching be everything.”

Of course Morse would say that. If pitching is everything, then he is nothing. Mike was nothing, too, nothing giving up everything, and it’s left them all with worse than nothing.

Some small part of Dot, the part of them that  _ is _ still Dot, knows that Morse is right, that there is more to the world than how you can throw a ball. But that can’t change the fact that pitching  _ is _ everything for them, now, regardless of whether they want it to be or not.

They haven't said anything, so he keeps talking. “You helped me out before, Dot. Let me help you now.” 

Say something, Dot.

“How do you plan to do that?”

“Just by being here. You pitched nineteen innings today. You don't need more pitching, you need a friend.”

Friends. Friends get snatched away or burned up and the ones that remain stare at you as if they wish you'd burned up instead. 

_ You don't need friends. They don't appreciate you. They can't understand you.  _

For once, Dot is inclined to agree with the gods.

They whirl around to glare at Morse. “You can tell your  _ friends _ that… that…” they trail off, sputtering. They’re out of words. They don’t know what they want to say, anyway.

Morse just shakes his head sadly. “It's not you they're angry at, not really. They just want a break from being angry at themselves. Once they see that Gloom really doesn't blame you, they’ll lay off.”

And what if Gloom dies?

Morse must see the question on their face, because he says “Don’t worry about what might happen. Just take it one day at a time.”

The days have not been kind to anyone, lately.

“Go away, Morse.” It’s almost a whisper. To make up for that, they clench all of their fists again.

To his credit, Morse doesn't flinch even when confronted with fourth-dimensional threats. “All right, I’ll leave you alone for now. But you should go home. Talk to me tomorrow, or Gloom, or anyone. They’ll come around. All of us need to stick together if we’re going to get through this.” 

“I have had more than enough talking for a while.”

“...Good night, Dot.”

He takes the ball with him. Dot gets another one.

_ One. Two. Three. _

* * *

The days pass, and the anger starts to fade, if only a little. The team mutters half-sincere apologies and Dot gives them genuine ones, though Dot’s  _ sorry _ means  _ sorry that I am the way I am, _ and that’s not good enough for anyone. It’s not their fault that Gloom was hit, so why do they feel so guilty?

_ One. Two. Three. _

They pitch another game, a safe game, with no Jaylen and nothing but feedback to worry about, the first three innings fitting so perfectly into the rhythm before it starts to fall apart. They watch from far away, watch through a haze, watch as someone named PolkaDot Patterson throws pitches that the other team keeps hitting. 

_ Not as perfect as everyone says, _ laughs the echo.

Even if the team is angry, they still do what teams should do, do their best to make up for their pitcher’s failure. Gloom hits two home runs, their form wavering all the while. They look to Dot both times they reach home, where Dot gives them a small nod, and they nod back. They understand.

It's not enough. The Talkers lose.

It doesn't matter. It stopped mattering a long time ago. Go to the wall again. Don't stop pitching. Less pitching means more thinking, and more thinking means… well. Don’t think about it. 

_ One. Two. Three. _

They’re still pitching when the crowds have gone. They’re still pitching when the skies start to darken, the gradual soft approach of night rather than the sudden shadows that will appear before the game tomorrow. They’re still pitching when a solitary figure approaches. 

Workman Gloom, bat in hand, steps up to the plate, their expression unreadable in the darkness.

“Mind if I join you?”

Dot inclines their head, winds up to throw yet again.

Workman hits the ball with a satisfying  _ crack _ , which Dot is maybe not supposed to be happy about, but this is good, this is better than throwing at a wall or throwing in a crowded stadium where everyone cares if the batter hits your pitch or not, or if your pitch hits the batter. This isn’t anything like that, it just  _ is _ .

They don’t talk. They don't need to. Dot throws and Gloom swings and there are strikeouts and home runs and this is how it should be, a challenge, a duel, the rhythm stopping and starting and expanding to fill the whole world, just the two of them as equals, partners in a dance that no one else could follow.

But sooner or later it ends, as all things do, and the rest of the world shifts back into focus. The balls have all been hit and Dot could quickly slip into the fourth dimension to get them all back but this can't go on forever and they both know it. 

Dot doesn’t know what to say.  _ It’s been an honor working with you _ sounds too final.  _ I’m sorry _ isn’t what they want to hear.  _ It’ll be okay _ seems like a cruel lie.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” they say, finally.

Workman nods, something that could be a smile drifting across their face like a slow-moving cloud against the night sky. “I’d like that.” 

* * *

They don’t get the chance, of course. 

* * *

Dot’s not the one pitching under dark skies today. They never are, not when it matters. They can only sit back and watch, a different reminder that they can do nothing to change what will happen.

It's only the fourth inning, but the team is already nervous about the tie. Nobody wants another agonizingly long game.

Dot figures this is not a good time to remind them that it doesn't matter.

Workman Gloom steps up to the plate under the distant halo of the sun. Their body wavers with the instability, shifting in and out of existence, and yet they do not waver at all. Gloom stands as tall and steady as ever, always ready to hit the ball.

The umpire’s eyes hit first, flashing with that all-too-familiar light of death.

Gloom doesn't falter. Their bat connects anyway, dissolving into ash even as the ball begins to soar towards the shadowed sky. They start running.

The team is screaming. The fans are screaming. Somewhere among the haze, Dot is vaguely aware that they’re screaming, too.

Flames flicker up and down Gloom’s arms, and still they run. The fielders are standing motionless in disbelief, and still they run. The ball has gone far over the wall, and still they run.

Past first, smoke trailing behind them.

Past second, the flames spreading ever further.

Past third, blazing a path to home, a falling star.

What once was a foot touches home plate. Somehow, among all the flames, Gloom’s eyes glow brighter for one last moment. Dot meets them with horrified awe, and watches as they close one last time and dissolve into nothing.

This home run is the ultimate act of defiance. It means everything. It means nothing. Workman Gloom is dead. 

* * *

The game goes on. The game always has to go on, though this is a game Dot can only watch.

And they don't watch it, not really. They watch the endless echo of the flames, of the ball sailing out of the park, of the way Gloom’s eyes looked in that last moment. They watch the empty spot where Gloom should be, an emptiness that seems big enough to take up all the space in the stadium. They watch the tears on their teammates’ faces and wonder what it means that their own eyes stay dry. Is this not hurting?

* * *

The world goes on. The world always has to go on, no matter who is no longer in it.

The Talkers learn to play games without Gloom, as they have learned to play without so many others. So why does this feel different? Dot watched five people burn up in quick succession earlier this season, felt the echo of every flame in their heart. How can this be worse?

_ Because this time, it's your fault, _ says a small voice in their mind, a voice that belongs to no god. __

_ You let this happen.  _

_ You let Workman die.  _

_ You didn't even try to fight. _

_ You're nothing but a coward who hides behind excuses. _

_ You let Workman die. _

_ They all hate you.  _

_ They only tolerate you because you can pitch.  _

_ You let Workman die. _

_ Pitching is everything, and you're nothing when your team needs you the most. _

_ You’re not as perfect as everyone says. _

_ You let Workman die. _

_ You let Workman die. You let Workman die. You let Workman die. _

_ One. Two. Three. _

The gods do not argue with this voice. They say nothing at all. They simply let it happen.

Some other part of Dot knows this voice is wrong. Knows these things are not true. Believes they are not true, at least. But there are too many parts to Dot, and none of them were designed to fit together, and so nothing can prevent it all from falling apart.

* * *

The games go on. The games always have to go on. Dot pitches another one. The rhythm is there. The rhythm is always there. All the windows of the world have fogged up, save for the strike zone, the only thing they need to look at. They don't pay attention to anything else. They don't think about Workman’s eyes closing. They don't think at all. They just pitch.

The Talkers win. It doesn't matter.

The games go on. Dot stops going to the ones they're not pitching. They don't need to be there. They're not going to talk to anyone, anyway. 

The games go on.

* * *

“...Dot?”

“Go away, Morse.”

* * *

“Dot.”

“Go away, Morse.”

* * *

“I know I'm not the one you need to talk to --”

“Then don't talk to me.”

* * *

“Nobody blames you.”

“Then why don't  _ they _ talk to me?”

“Why don't you talk to them?”

“...Go away, Morse.”

* * *

“That was a good game you pitched today.”

“Was it?” They hadn't been paying much attention. Did they win? It doesn’t matter.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Season's almost over.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“You're high up on the leaderboard.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“None of us want to see you shelled, Dot.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“...”

“We'll do everything we can to prevent it. But if it does happen, I don't think you want to go in there without patching things up with the rest of the team.”

“...”

“They do want to talk to you. They're just waiting for the right moment. Afraid they might make things worse. You're never present, even when you're there.”

Dot isn't anywhere anymore, really. They just  _ are _ .

“I'd be the one to make things worse.”

“We've all made mistakes, Dot. On and off the field. You'd be making a bigger one by not talking to them.” 

“...Mostly  _ on _ the field, in your case.”

He laughs, caught by surprise. “I'll take that as a compliment. Sounds like you think I'm doing the right thing now, off the field. That's what matters.”

Think? Dot isn't thinking. Isn't pitching, either. They just  _ are _ .

...How long have they been like that? How many days have gone by? They're supposed to know these things. 

When did they stop paying attention?

_ Wake up, Dot _ , says another part of them, somewhere in the back of their mind. _ Gloom is gone, Bates and Tony and Kiki are gone, but you're still here. Morse is still here. The rest of the team is still here. The gods can't take everything. Don't forget that. _

Dot blinks, and the world starts to come back into focus. Morse is standing there, solid and alive and real. They grasp for more words. 

“You're still here.”

“Yes.”

“The others are still here.”

“Yes.”

“They don't hate me?”

“They don't.”

“I should... talk to them. Because they might not be here. I might not be here.”

“Yes.”

They don't have to, they know. They could keep turning away. Pretend they don't care, don't care about Workman dissolving into ash or Ziwa being too upset to keep the team together or Fish losing teammates from the Talkers  _ and _ the Tigers or Cerveza not yet feeling at home here or Morse still reaching out even though Dot pushes him away so many times or -- 

“...Morse?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it, Dot.”

“...Morse?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry.”

“We're all sorry, Dot.”

“Yes, I guess we are.”

* * *

The universe has come back into focus a bit more by the next morning, enough for the sun to wake Dot up and make them take notice of it. It shines stubbornly, as if it wants to make the most of its time, as if it knows that the moon is coming for it in just a few hours. As it has for a while now, it shines on a world without Workman, without Bates and Kiki and Tony and so many others -- but this is the world Dot lives in, and they're going to be living in it for a while yet, so they can’t pretend it’s not there. They have to make the most of their time, too.

Easier said than done, though. How do they face the team, find the right words, find a way to make sense to everyone when they can’t even make sense of themself?

Just go to the stadium, even if it's far too early. Don’t go to pitch. Go to sit, and think, and wait for the team. Just go.

They swing open the door to their apartment and a fist nearly collides with their face, the hand having been raised to knock just a split second earlier.

“Sorry!” Jaylen Hotdogfingers says, stepping back. “I was just... sorry. If you're on your way out, I’ll leave you alone.”

Dot is surprised to see her -- not just here at their apartment specifically, but in Halifax at all; she's not going to be pitching during the upcoming Garages-Talkers series. Neither of them are.

“I think I’ve been alone too much, lately. Walk with me?” 

She does, falling into step with them as they head down the stairs and outside. Not for the first time, Dot marvels that she too is solid and alive and real, her footsteps splashing in the dampness, her breath making clouds in the chilly morning air. She spent so many seasons as nothing but ash, and yet she is here. Incineration does not have to be permanent -- but that's a dangerous thought to have, of course. No one would think this is a fair price to pay for a second chance at life.

“I’m sorry about Workman,” she says, almost reflexively, though no less genuine.

Dot wonders how many times she has had to say that, how many more times she will have to change the name at the end of the sentence, how many people believe her words.

Dot believes.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Not yours, either.”

Believe that too, Dot. You have to.

They walk in silence for a while. Every now and then Jaylen instinctively presses two fingers to her neck, checking her own rhythm. Dot wonders what she hopes to feel, if it surprises her, reassures her, disappoints her.

“It doesn't get easier, does it?” she finally asks.

“No,” they admit. “You learn to live with it, but that does not make it easy. My curse is not as difficult as yours, though.”

“Mine has an end,” she says. “It has to. This debt can't go on forever. I… it can't. It won't. I'll find another way.”

“You still believe you can fight, after all that's happened?”

“I do, because what will I believe otherwise? That everything is hopeless? There are always loopholes, I wouldn't be here if there weren't. I just need to find another one, and I can make things right.”

“Hmm,” says Dot. She is naive, still, even in her second life. But she is right about loopholes -- though the one that brought her here has not had pleasant consequences, the fact that there are loopholes at all is... well. It's something. 

“Find some way to fight, Dot. Just because we can't do anything to stop what's been happening this season doesn't mean we can't do  _ anything _ .”

“I will,” they say, and mean it, because they decided this earlier. It’s what Workman would want, Workman who defied the gods with their dying breath. They still died, but it is a moment, a legacy, that no one will ever forget. Even if it meant nothing, it also means everything.

It is a small defiance, what Dot is doing, simply telling the gods  _ I will care about these people who I do not always understand, and it will not be easy, and you will take more of them, but I will not stop caring, because you cannot take everything from me, and I will not take it from myself _ . But it is a defiance that means something to them, and someday, they will find a way to do something more.

Jaylen nods. She understands.

They’ve reached the stadium, and she pauses. She has no need to go in there, not yet. “I'll see you at the game, then.”

“Yes.”

“Good luck, Dot.”

They're not pitching today, but they know what she means.

“Good luck, Jaylen.”

* * *

Gleek Arena is silent save for the rhythmic lapping of water and the occasional distant rumbling call from the Leviathan. No crowds, no umps, no teammates. Not yet. But quiet or loud, as the seasons go by the stadium has started to feel almost...  _ right _ . As if Dot could belong there. They know it can't be forever, but it can be for now, and that's enough, because it has to be.

It's not all that long before Ziwa finds them. Not pitching, for once. Just sitting in the empty stands, watching the empty field. Thinking. 

Ziwa sits down next to Dot. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Silence. Well, they've certainly had worse conversations.

“...I'm sorry,” Ziwa finally says. As if it hurts to say, but would hurt more not to.

“I --”

“No. Just listen.”

Dot listens.

“We're teammates. You've been on this team even longer than I have. If I can't trust my own teammates in this hell, who can I trust? I tried to pretend that it was okay to hate you for this, because hating Jaylen and the gods and myself isn't enough. I had -- have -- so much anger, because I'm so goddamn sick of this, we all are, and the anger has to go  _ somewhere _ , but it shouldn't have gone to you.”

Ziwa takes a deep breath. “I don't agree with everything you say. I'm not gonna forgive Jaylen or anything like that. But I'm trying to understand that this isn't easy for you, either, and that just shows up in a different way. I know you did care about Workman, and the others, even if it wasn't always obvious. I'm sorry for adding to your pain. We all are.”

Silence.

“...You can talk now.”

“I hate myself too.”

...That wasn't what they planned to say.

Ziwa tilts their head to the side. Listening. And so Dot keeps talking.

“I don't want to be what I am, Ziwa. Half of me is here and half of me is on another plane of existence and none of me belongs. I know too much about how the world works but I can do nothing to change it. I watch my teammates burn and know I couldn't have prevented it and still feel that I somehow should have. I know I can come across as... uncaring. Distant. The very nature of what I am makes me distant, and I try to distance myself further because it's easier than... well. You know. But I'm sorry, too. I haven't been a good teammate. Your anger is understandable.”

...Understandable.

Finally, PolkaDot Patterson understands Ziwa Mueller, and Ziwa Mueller understands PolkaDot Patterson.

“Understandable, but not excusable,” Ziwa says.

“I will excuse it nonetheless. My behavior has been… harmful, too. This is a difficult season for all of us.”

Ziwa looks at them for a moment, and then nods. “Okay. But no more of this. We're a team, and we have to stick together. All of us. We can't tear each other apart.”

_ All of us _ . Morse said that, a while ago. He’s wrong about the best pitching strategies, but he’s right when it matters. 

“All of us,” Dot echoes. They're going to talk to the others. Learn to understand them, too. 

“You know,” Ziwa says, standing up and stretching. “We've still got plenty of time before the game starts, and I could use some batting practice. Wanna come along?” 

Dot’s mouth twitches into something that could become a smile. “I'd like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was the most difficult of my blaseball fics to write, both technically and emotionally. I spent a lot of time changing things and adding things, and it ended up being about twice as long as I expected. Also, it almost made me cry on multiple occasions, which I hope means it's good? I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, anyway, and I hope you liked it too. Thanks for reading <3
> 
> (also, there is no way to fit this perfectly into the chronology of the series, so I'm putting it second, which is as close as I can get. But I'm sure a lot of you are reading this after the ones I posted earlier, anyway, and it doesn't matter that much in the long run)
> 
> (also also, I promise the next things I write about Dot will be less angsty. Time for some team bonding!)


End file.
